The Art of Burning Slowly
by PokeyDotes
Summary: He isn't in love with his partner, he's almost positive of that. He's read the poems. All the literature, limericks, and prose that was forced on him throughout school-a bunch of randomness written by some old guy with a feather in his hat who's trying to define 'love', equating it to a burning fire, blah, blah, blah.
1. Chapter 1

**So, I've been watching season two on DVD, and then I just rewatched "Skin Deep" on DVR...yeah, I blame this on all of those. It's Densi people.**

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The world's supposed to end on a Friday, or at least that's what they say. Who knows, maybe the Mayans got it wrong, or maybe, just maybe the whole race decided to play one big practical joke, all etched in stone.

But today isn't Friday, and the world's not about to end, or at least he doesn't think it will. He realizes they're all nothing more than a distraction, each and every one of them. Each encounter is too short to be classified as a relationship, and too impersonal to be considered a fling. It's all about convenience and need, all about finding a distraction.

He isn't _in love_ with his partner, he's almost positive of that. He's read the poems. All the literature, limericks, and prose that was forced on him throughout school-a bunch of randomness written by some old guy with a feather in his hat and a stick in his ass who's trying to define 'love', equating it to a burning fire, blah, blah, blah.

That's not him and Kensi, not by a long shot. If anything, their relationship is closer to a bon fire, each one dancing around it, keeping their distance, never getting close enough to get burned. It works, except for the whole him needing to find a distraction thing.

The first time she was forced to flirt with a suspect, he had called up an old ex, someone with blonde hair and a sense of adventure, someone who wouldn't mind having a little fun for just a little while. The last time Kensi went on a date, he didn't care to remember the girl's name—something that started with an 'A'.

An hour ago, he didn't even bother _to get_ the girl's name, but to be fair, she didn't seem all that interested in learning his either.

She had tasted like Cheetos, her fingers stained orange from the highly processed powder-coated snack. His shirt is streaked with her fingerprints, little orange lines tracing his ribcage.

She had looked like a flapper, straight out of the twenties. Hair cut short, bobbed above the chin, dark eyeliner, playful smirk. She was fun and had a van.

When Eric phoned, calling him back into work only a few hours after the work day had ended, she had told him goodbye with a kiss, stretching lazily beneath the blanket as he got dressed.

Now, he's hoping like hell no one calls him on the fact that he smells like sex or notices Flapper's fingerprints all over his shirt. Maybe he can make it to his locker or his desk before the rest of the team arrives. But that would mean that luck is on his side.

"Why do you look like a five-year-old that couldn't find a napkin?" Callen's leaning back in his chair, his feet crossed at the ankles, propped on the edge of his desk. He's smiling, a rubix cube in his hands as he studies Deeks with a careful, mirthful eye.

Deeks allows a shy smirk to play out as he opens his desk drawer, reaching in the back for the tightly folded spare shirt. "Any idea why Eric called?" Deeks asks, popping the shirt sharply before smelling it, checking to make sure it's wearable.

Callen stares a few more moments, his eyes squinted in suspicion as he watches Deeks change shirts. "Don't know yet," he admits, turning the cube a few more times. "You didn't answer my question."

"And what question would that be?" Deeks tucks the stained shirt into the small drawer as he plops into his seat, forcing himself to meet Callen's gaze.

"What's with the shirt?" Callen asks, dropping his feet and leaning forward, his elbows resting on the desk.

"What's with all the questions?" Deeks counters, imitating Callen's pose.

"You know," Callen says with an accusing smile, "for a guy that just got laid, you seem kinda pissed."

Deeks stares for a moment, his tongue unconsciously tracking along his lower lip as Callen's knowing smile grows. "Is it that obvious?"

"To me it is," Callen tells him, leaning back in his seat, "But if you want your secret kept, you might wanna go clean up a little before your partner gets here."

Ten minutes later, Deeks is standing in Ops, waiting for Nell and Eric to start the show, wondering why Callen hadn't said anything when Kensi walked in, her playful smile asking Deeks where he ran off to a few hours before.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

The world's supposed to end on a Friday. Today's not Friday, but things aren't looking too hot. At least not from where Deeks is standing. Not too long ago, Kensi had asked him jokingly just how many people he had arrested. It was laughed off, but more than once already, he's come in contact with someone who could label him as LAPD, so it's no surprise that it's about to happen again. Except this time, Deeks doesn't think the night will end with a bouncer tossing him out the back door of a night club, or a stoner starting a bar fight. Nope, this is gonna get ugly.

They're standing side-by-side, Kensi's high heels making them almost the same height. Sam's standing right behind them, looking every bit the image of the watchful bodyguard. Deeks keeps his posture relaxed, his hands in his pockets, one ear trained on the sound of Callen and Eric's voices filtering through the mic, the other straining to hear the muffled voices in the distance, the ones hidden behind the door.

By all accounts, he shouldn't even be here. He should be at home, nursing a beer and regretting that moment of weakness with Flapper, thinking he should have kept going when he caught her eye. But someone somewhere had found something, which prompted someone else to call Hetty, which resulted in them being where they are now.

The only reason Callen isn't here is because the mark already knows him. They needed someone new, someone the guy wouldn't recognize. Enter stage left, the blond-haired, blue-eyed lawyer with a supermodel girlfriend/assistant and man-of-muscle bodyguard. Easy as pie.

Hetty had picked out their outfits. Deeks had to smile, because, yeah, he looks awesome in a suit. But then there was Kensi. All legs, and curves, and dark eyeliner. Marilyn's bedroom eyes. Come hither indeed. If he doesn't die in the next few minutes, Deeks'll have to ask Hetty if she chooses Agent Blye's wardrobe simply to torture him.

He knows he's in trouble the moment that laugh filters through the closed door. It's one of those laughs you never forget, the kind that when you hear it, you want to laugh along with them. Except Deeks isn't laughing.

There wasn't supposed to be anyone else. This was a private party, a meet-n-greet. No surprises. But things rarely go as planned. He can tell by Kensi's body language that she has no idea what's about to go down, no idea how bad things are about to get.

Were it not for the ten men with guns, all standing around casually, like holding their boss's new lawyer at gunpoint is as normal as watching the weather, Deeks would try to warn them, try to whisper in his mic that it's all about to hit the fan as soon as that door opens.

Instead, the best he can do is look to Kensi, and meet her eye. Judging by the look she gives him, the way that one eyebrow quirks in fear, he knows she can tell what he's trying to say. He's trying to apologize, to tell her he's sorry for what's about to happen and for everything that never did.

As the door opens, the laughter dies, and that metaphorical fan takes a beating.

"What the hell?" Mr. Laughter asks, his eyes looking from Deeks to their host. "What's he doin' here?"

Now everybody knows. Kensi takes a step closer, and though Sam's standing behind him, Deeks can _feel_ him tense. Callen's worried voice in his ear isn't doing anything to calm Deeks' rapidly beating heart.

"He's my lawyer," the man says, insulted that his newest guest is making such a scene.

"Lawyer my ass," Mr. Laughter says, "When I knew him, he was a driver, barely had his GED if memory serves." Then Mr. Laughter squints his eyes, his brain adding one and one, and wouldn't you know his momma taught him how to count. Deeks is really wishing someone would turn off that fan now.

"You a cop, ain't ya?" he says, stepping closer to Deeks. That gets everyone's attention. Deeks can hear Callen calling abort, can hear him telling them that backup's moving in, just a few more minutes. Deeks holds up his hands, palms out.

"I'm not a cop," he lies, but as thug number one grabs him by the collar, pulling him away from Kensi, Deeks wishes like hell it were the truth. "Just hold on…"

"You're telling me this guy's a cop?" the man asks Mr. Laughter, one manicured nail pointing at Deeks accusingly, that protruding vein in his neck telling Deeks that he's more than a little pissed.

"Hang on Deeks," Eric says, causing Deeks' ear to tickle, "Callen's on his way, SWATS two minutes out."

"Get them out of here," the man says, gesturing to Kensi and Sam. Deeks watches as they're led away at gunpoint, both of them looking worriedly to Deeks. "You're a cop," the man says, nice and slow, like the realization isn't all that surprising.

Deeks doesn't answer, he can tell by Mr. Laughter's smirk that nothing good would come of it. Turns out keeping quiet ain't working too well either.

Deeks bites his lip as thug number one dead legs him, that army boot hitting hard against the back of the knee. He looks up, meeting the man's gleeful eyes. If there's a rule book out there, a guide on how to survive an encounter with a sociopath, Deeks is pretty certain rule number one would state that if said sociopath's eyes can be defined as 'gleeful' it's probably in one's best interest to haul ass.

Too bad thug number one's got the muzzle of his gun tangled in Deeks' hair.

The kick to the stomach is a little unexpected. He squeezes his eyes shut, his muscles retaliating as he tries and fails to suck in air. Maybe if his eyes were open he would see the butt of the gun swinging towards his face, but then again, he hadn't seen the kick.

His mouth fills with blood, that coppery taste tangy on his tongue as it pours from his lips. Funny how the only thing he can think is that Hetty's gonna kill him for ruining her shirt.

Then there's another hit and he's pretty sure he's got a loose tooth. He spits out the blood, swallows what's left before looking back up, meeting those gleeful eyes. Now he's regretting more than just that hour with Flapper. He's regretting not taking Kensi up on the offer to grab a bite to eat, to go out and shoot a little pool.

He knows someone's saying something in his ear, probably Callen, or Nell, or Eric. Who knows, maybe even Hetty, but right now all he can focus on is the pain and trying to breath as Mr. Laughter's infamous laugh provides a soundtrack to the beating, blending nicely into the backdrop as highly polished army boots meet flesh and bone.

It takes a moment for him to realize that the beating's stopped, that those hands trying to roll him over aren't simply looking for a softer target.

"Deeks, look at me." It's an order, but, really now he should be used to 'em, especially when they're coming from her. He opens his eyes and is met with Kensi's worried face, her hair a little messed, her barrette hanging loosely, threatening to fall any moment.

"I'm okay," he says and he feels the blood bubble around his teeth. He tries to sit up, to turn so he can spit, but Sam is there, one strong hand pushing gently on his chest, holding him down. He feels the blood spill down his chin, his tongue immediately feeling for the gash in his cheek.

"He okay?" he hears Callen ask from somewhere behind him. Deeks tilts his head back, his eyes scanning the room from upside down. There's SWAT all over, flashlights flickering on the ends of their guns. Mr. Laughter's on the floor, his hands secured behind his back. Thug one and three are on the ground as well, their eyes open to the ceiling, their chests still as the blood pools. Deeks doesn't see their host, the man who had started the whole little meeting.

"I'm fine," Deeks tells him, smiling at the three looks of doubt he receives. "Don't get me wrong, I hurt all over, but I don't think I'm gonna die." Which is pretty good in his book seeing how two minutes ago he wasn't so sure.

Soon there's more lights, more people, and a bumpy ride to the hospital for a few stitches and a doctor's word to back Deeks up on the whole 'not dying' thing.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

He should start playing the lottery, because seriously, he's got to be one lucky guy. Admittedly, one wouldn't know it just by looking at him, what with all the bruising and slight swelling, but hell yeah, luck is on his side. He could be dead, being fitted one last time for one of Hetty's nice suits. Instead, he's at home, savoring the feel of hot water as he soaks in the tub, the heat working to loosen his battered body.

He closes his eyes, pinches his nose, and bends his knees. The water covers his head, the sounds of the small, confined waves echoing in his ears, the cut below his eye burning and he vaguely remembers the doctor saying something about not getting it wet.

When he comes up, his fingers working to wipe the water from his eyes, he hears the sound of someone pounding at his door, his name being called in a familiar voice. He doesn't even bother pulling the plug as he hurries to get out, stopping only to grab a towel and secure it around his waist before retching the bathroom door open, his feet working to get him to the door before she changes her mind. Of course, if he'd stop to think it through, he'd realize she doesn't really know how to change her mind. She's stubborn and determined.

His phone's ringing by the time he makes it to the living room, the light shining from the coffee table, the vibration making it dance next to his keys. He pulls the door open, smiling as he sees that annoyed pout coupled with that worried frown as she holds the phone to her ear.

She waits a moment, both their phones still ringing as he watches her study him, her dark eyes taking in the developing bruises above the towel, the ones she hadn't seen before now.

"I, uh…I just…" she starts, stumbling for words as his voice mail picks up, the sound of his voice telling her to leave a message after the beep sounding small as it filters through her speaker. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay," she eventually says with a tone of finality, making it sound as though she had only just come to that conclusion herself.

"And you had to turn around and drive back here to check?" he asks, no judgment in his voice. The sound of late-night traffic drifts up from the street, his neighbor slams a door before yelling at her kid, Monty whimpers from his spot on the couch, the same spot he's been in since Kensi dropped Deeks off almost an hour earlier.

She's still wearing her makeup, those dark bedroom eyes she had adorned for the show, the ones that go with the dress she's still wearing beneath her green jacket. Her hair's pulled back in a ponytail, no longer the post-scrambled mess it had been before the trip to the hospital.

"I just needed to make sure," she says, and Deeks swallows when he hears a slight tremble to her voice. He simply nods as he steps back, opening the door wider so she can come in.

"I'm fine, Kens," he promises her, locking the door as she crosses the room nervously. He can tell part of her regrets coming back, regrets listening to that little voice that tells reason and logic to go to hell. But he knows that nobody's going to make Kensi Blye do something she doesn't want to, including Kensi Blye. "I'm a little banged up, but I'm okay."

She nods and leans against the wall, the corner leading to the hallway balanced between her shoulder blades. "You scared me today, Deeks." She looks down to her phone, frowning when she realizes it's still on, still connected to his voice mail.

"I scared me, too," he admits, causing her to look up. "I thought…" he doesn't say it, but then again he doesn't have to. She already knows, because she had thought the same thing. She nods, and looks away, one finger rising to angrily wipe away an errant tear.

One hand still holding the towel in place, he crosses the room, squeezing her shoulder as he forces her to look at him. "Are _you_ okay?"

His hair's still soaking wet, trails of water making their way down his neck, over his shoulders, slowly falling until they meet the towel. She lets her eyes follow the paths, choosing not to answer his question.

He doesn't say anything when she reaches out, the tips of her fingers barely touching the outline of a bruise, a small welt visible from the tread of a boot. He keeps his eyes on her face, watching as she realizes what she's doing.

Instead of pulling back, she flattens her hand, smoothing her palm over the heated bruise. "It's getting to where we can't take you anywhere," she jokes, trying to find normalcy in this situation.

He keeps quiet until she meets his eyes, his hand still on her shoulder, her palm still pressed to his side.

As he steps forward, his head dipping down to kiss her, his mind goes back to all those poems he had read, back to that old guy with a feather in his hat. He's still not in love with his partner, not that he would say out loud anyway.

It isn't until he feels her drop her phone at their feet, both her hands rising to fist in his wet hair that he thinks about that bon fire, the one they keep dancing around. It's as he pins her against the wall, the towel be damned as he uses both hands to remove her jacket that he figures, yeah, maybe they are getting a little close, that things have been getting a little hot for a while.

He knows they should probably stop, but he's tired of it all. Tired off all the distractions, of always regretting everything he does and regretting what he doesn't do more. It's time to let _her_ be his distraction. Let her distract him from the pain, from the fact that he almost died, that she could have died right along with him.

As she wraps her legs around his waist, the loosened towel finally making its way to the floor, Deeks begins to realize he shouldn't question Hetty's choice for Kensi's wardrobe. He should just by the woman a gift basket and leave it at that.

Even in the rush of the moment, the frenzied desire to make it to the bedroom but only managing to get as far as the hallway, Kensi's surprisingly gentle, mindful of the ribs on his left side, her fingers tracing lightly over his swollen cheek.

Despite her care, he still feels the pain, feels the burn and pull of bruises. But it's okay, she's distracting him from it all, and god if she isn't a beautiful distraction.

So yeah, the world's supposed to end on a Friday, and that's all good because today ain't Friday.

FIN.


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, so I hadn't planned on this being anything more than a oneshot, but then people asked for more and, well...I swear I'm not a pushover, really I'm not. But people asked, and I wrote.**

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Fridays have never really been her favorite day of the week. Don't get her wrong, she loves the beginning of the weekend as much as anyone else, but Fridays…Fridays always feel like they last too long, like the clocks all decide to slow down, pull a trick out of the Matrix and tick an extra tock just for good measure, making that elusive weekend that much farther away.

She loves her job, wouldn't trade it for the world, but she needs those two days of freedom, two days to get away and pretend like her emotions aren't about to go haywire and screw her out of a suitable reality. She's good at pretending, it's one of the reasons she kicks ass when it comes to her job, but sometimes it gets to be a little much. Especially when it comes to her partner.

She's good at ribbing him, at pushing the envelope, skirting as close to the edge as they can get without tipping the scales. It's something that unintentionally started the first time they met, the first time he walked through the front door and she pretended to be looking for a score. Learning each other's real names has only worked to intensify the antics, make the double entendres more risqué, those fleeting touches less platonic.

Most days it's all fun and games, her enticing him, watching him squirm for a comeback and waiting for him to do the same. But then there are those days when she has to force the playful banter. It's hard to seem indifferent when he mentions a past girlfriend, when he drops a few exotic names, or when they walk into a strip club and Candy and Destiny call out 'Marty' in those breathy tones from across the bar. It's even worse when she gets into his car and the scent of perfume is still in his seat, when she goes over to his apartment while he sorts laundry and finds a bra in amongst his shorts and socks.

She goes out on occasion, letting the guy on the beach ask for her number, making sure Deeks knows about it the next day. Not to make him jealous or anything, just to keep the playing field even. Why should he have all the fun?

Except that it isn't fun, not all the time anyways. Most men either find her too intimidating, or worse, only see her for the physical, for what she can do for the eye and they definitely aren't interested in her mouth for what she has to say. Nope, only Deeks seems to be okay with that.

She stretches lazily, her hands reaching high above her head, her toes curling as her feet push the tangled sheet further down the bed. Yep, usually Fridays aren't her favorite day, but she's not really wanting this one to end. Good thing it's just getting started.

She turns her head, a mop of blonde curls tickling her nose. She listens to him breathe and tries not to pay attention to the bruises all along his side, the ones that have had all night to darken, his trophy to accompany the bragging rights he received for surviving a monumental ass kicking.

He's facing away, the cut on his cheek hidden from her view. Hetty had given them all the day off, either as a reward for getting the job done or as condolences for the job going south. Either way, there's no hurry or reason for her to leave this bed.

Except for the freaking phone.

She hears it coming from the other room, that suddenly too loud ring tone filtering down the hall. She hurries out of bed, careful not to disturb him as she tiptoes out the door, grabbing a rumpled hoodie from the floor on her way out.

The phone's lying right where she left it, right on the floor beside a still slightly damp towel and her underwear. Pulling the hoodie down over her head, she clicks the answer button, holding the phone to her ear as she struggles to get her arm through the tangled sleeve.

"Hello?" she says, not having looked at the screen before answering, her eyes darting towards the cracked bedroom door, waiting for any sign that he's woken up.

"Hello," an automated voice answers, and it takes a lot of self-control not to throw the phone against the freaking wall. "We at California Mutual would like to invite—"

She doesn't care what they'd like to invite her to do. They can kiss her big toe for all she cares.

She looks back down at the towel, at the hastily discarded underwear and feels a slight blush. It's safe to say last night had not gone as planned, but in all honestly she didn't really have a plan when she got in her car and headed towards his apartment. All she could think of was the sounds that had accompanied the beating, the way Sam had fought to get back in the room, not waiting for SWAT to arrive, of that look Deeks had given her before it all started, the one that had sent her stomach plummeting to her freaking ankles as she recognized regret and an apology.

He had been lying there, curled in on himself, waiting for the next blow when they finally made it back to the room. The whole thing had gone wrong, and there really isn't anyone to blame. It's not like you can blame a cop for making enemies with the Bad Guys as Deeks calls them.

She looks back to the bedroom, the crumpled form of her dress lying on the floor, and Kensi almost wants to laugh, because she can only imagine the look Hetty would give her if she knew Kensi left her nine hundred dollar dress lying on the floor.

But then the levity is gone because reality starts to kick in. Her partner is lying in the other room. Her completely naked partner, all worn out from a night of crime fighting and impromptu sex. Now, she has to wait for him to wake up, for him to decide what the hell they're gonna do next because there's no way she's going to be the one who ruins this, this…whatever it is.

It's funny, in a way, that they've never been able to put words to what they are. Yeah, they're partners, that's a given, but then so are Sam and Callen. It's not really on the same level. They're definitely friends, a man and a woman who share a relationship, trust one another with their lives, and yet…it continues to be stuck with the moniker 'The Thing', something sounding more akin to a 1960s horror film.

The Thing. Well, there's definitely no denying it exists now, not when she's wearing nothing more than his wrinkled hoodie while digging through his pantry looking for a decent box of cereal.

"Don't look at me like that," she whispers harshly to Monty, his shaggy head tilted to the side as he watches her eat the cereal straight from the box, and doesn't she feel like a bitch when he gets that kicked puppy look. "Just, don't judge," she amends in a nicer tone, closing the pantry and looking for a bowl.

"I mean, I'm pretty sure I've seen you eat a hamburger straight outta the trash," she continues, carrying on the monologue, trying to fill the silence, trying to calm her nerves, because yeah, this is kinda a big deal. Like life changing big. The Thing has come to life. Cue Dr. Frankenstein and his evil laugh.

"In his defense, that burger had bacon on it." Damn it to hell, straight down to the ninth circle. She nearly drops the bowl when his voice sneaks up on her, shattering any hint of calm she had managed to accumulate.

She turns around, surprised face in full effect as she studies him, as she watches him pull a t-shirt over his head, hiding the bruises. He leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he studies her, his eyes tracing her legs to the hem of the hoodie, and if she hadn't already damned it to hell once, she'd do it again, because that look, the way he smirks with his eyes, it all makes her feel like she's nineteen years old, young and inexperienced.

"It was still in the trash," she says, putting on a knowing smile as she pours her cereal. "Nice hair by the way." She twists her smile to keep from laughing as he frowns, one hand rising to feel the wild curls, the ones that had still been wet when they finally made it to the bed.

"Ditto," he says in reply, and she has no choice but to concede because she doesn't even remember taking her hair down, let alone where the ponytail holder is. Her distorted shadow against the counter kind of gives her a hint as to the monumental case of bed head she's no doubtfully sporting.

"D'you sleep okay?" she asks, and well isn't that just fine and dandy. Who the hell asks that? But then again, what should she ask? Does social protocol dictate she continue to skate around the edge, only eluding to what they both want to know but never outright asking, because, Hello, she's pretty certain that's what they've been doing all along as it is. Besides, is there a social protocol for how one should act the morning after jumping your partner's bones?

"Pretty good," he says, and she pours the milk slowly, trying not to notice the way he shyly shifts on his feet, the way he squints his eyes and looks around the kitchen, looks anywhere but at her. "So, uh…yeah."

"Yeah," she mimics, leaning against the counter, spoon in hand as she begins to shovel cereal into her mouth. "Do you want some?" she asks, not liking the silence, not liking the fact that he has yet to give any indication as to what comes next.

He laughs, and she doesn't really know how she feels about it. "What?" she asks, slightly offended.

"You're offering me my own food," he says walking forward, standing toe to toe before he leans forward, his arm reaching behind her head as he pulls down a bowl of his own. She pretends he doesn't notice the slight blush she feels working its way up her neck, or the way she unintentionally leans forward, her body suddenly like a magnet, his polar opposite.

"Well, you looked like you were waiting for an invitation," she tells him, "Just figured I'd give you one." And if that isn't a loaded statement, she doesn't know what is. Just shovel more food in Kensi, keep yourself from saying anything more, because so far, so good.

They fall into another silence, him leaning against the counter, his elbow occasionally brushing hers as they eat their cereal.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tock. Tock.

God, someone needs to tell that clock to get its act together. Fridays…gotta love 'em.

"So, I kinda didn't think it would be this awkward?" he admits in between bites. "Kinda thought you'd have more to say?"

"You've thought about this?" she teases, once again falling back on her habit of reaching for normal, of keeping things light. But hey, that's what she loves about him, well, _likes_ about him. Love is a dangerous word, lets hold off on that, shall we?

"Well, yeah," he says crooked smile peeking out from behind the bowl as he tries to drink the sugary milk. "Don't even try to pretend that you haven't, because I know you wanted this just as much as me."

And there it is, Ladies and Gentlemen, that metaphorical lifeline, that Holy Grail that every girl looks for in the dreaded Morning After. An outright confession of how he feels.

"Yeah," she says, swirling the last remnants of cereal around the edges of her bowl, trying not to smile like a giddy schoolgirl, "Except when I imagined it, _you_ were always the one with a lot more to say."

"That does sound like me doesn't it?" He sets the bowl in the sink and crosses his arms, looking at her from the corner of his eyes. "So, what did you always imagine me saying?"

Kensi decides to play along, tilting her head and looking to the side as she pretends to think. "Oh, I don't know..."

He smiles, eyes shining as he jumps in, and really she should have expected it. "Was it something along the lines of how awesome I am, or how flexible you—"

"You know what," she says, stopping him from saying another word as she places her milky spoon against his lips. "I think I like your version better. Leave me to do all the talking."

"Is that right?" he asks, lips pushing against the spoon.

"Yup," she says, all nineteen and inexperienced again as he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her in, kissing her.

So, Fridays aren't her favorite day of the week, but this one's shaping up to be pretty interesting. Good thing it's just getting started.

**The End. (Really, this time.)**


End file.
